WarTorn Love
by Scarlett Sophie
Summary: [Flyboys]Rawlings is just beginning to get over his love with Lucienne when he meets Sophie, a smalltown girl trying to survive the war. Can their love last even though he's always in the skies and she has her feet firmly planted on the ground?
1. Mistaken Identity

Chapter One

It was a rainy day, the sky darkened with clouds. Usually she loved these kinds of days, for she loved rain and the ability it had of making things grow, but this day had a particularly sinister quality to it, something that made her tremble slightly as she slowly pedaled her bike along the wide, tree-bordered road. It was slightly muddy, for in spots there were large puddles of mud, and every once in a while she had to swerve to avoid these.

She had in her basket a meager amount of fruits and vegetables, freshly picked from her garden. She was heading towards the whorehouse, a large and slightly run-down building in the middle of nowhere, for it was common knowledge that they considered themselves "too good" for gardening and always welcomed with open arms those who came to sell them food. It was the only place she could still sell her vegetables, for no one in town had the money to buy other peoples' food, and tried to make do with what they grew in their own gardens.

She leaned her bike against the wall of the building and took the small package of vegetables that she had placed in the basket. She held it gently, cradling it almost as one would cradle a baby. Slowly she walked up to the door and tentatively pushed it open- there was never anyone free to open doors. Every time she came here she felt the guilt welling up inside of her, felt dirty and low. But she kept coming back, pushed to it by her need for money.

There was no one in sight, and she slowly made her way towards the back of the house, knowing that was where Clarisse, the owner of the establishment, kept her office.

The office was empty. She sighed, not knowing what to do, but tentatively sat down on the sofa, gently placing her package of vegetables, neatly wrapped in an embroidered piece of cloth, on the table.

She waited for a few minutes, but found that she couldn't stand to wait in such an establishment for too long. She simply wanted to sell her vegetables and get out, especially before anyone saw her. She stood up and went to the door, slowly poking her head out and peering around.

A man stood at one end of the hall. He noticed her, and before she could pull her head back into the room and close the door, thus putting a stop to any possible conversation, he was standing in front of her.

He had a gentle face, slightly hardened by what she couldn't even hazard a guess at. He wore an army uniform though, and he had sandy blond hair that was swept out of his face. He was tall and well-muscled, with a gentle mouth, which she imagined smiled often. But what she noticed most were his eyes- those kind, gentle eyes that seemed to reassure her and soften the uncomfortable knot in her stomach.

"You're new here, aren't you?" he asked in English. She shook her head slowly, unable to tear her gaze away. He smiled. "You understand English?"

"Yes," she whispered, incapable of lying to him. She couldn't lie to him, not after the way he was treating her.

"What's your name?"

"Sophie," she whispered. She couldn't lie, but at least she wouldn't give out her last name. He smiled and put a hand on the door, gently pushing it open. She made no move to resist.

"Are you busy?" he asked, but they both knew that she wasn't.

"A little, yes," she said, her voice slightly stern for the first time. She would allow him to mistake her for a whore, which was understandable given her situation. But she refused to allow him to use her as one too.

He was taken aback by the harshness in her voice, but he recovered quickly. He smiled and nodded.

"I understand," he said. "My name is Blaine Rawlings. I'm in the Lafayette Escadrille, if you ever want to look me up."

She forced a smile as he turned to go. As he passed through the door Clarisse came in, looking slightly surprised to see Sophie in her office. She closed the door and came over, her face composed now, ready to talk business.

There was a knock on the door, and Clarisse looked up from a stack of papers. She had her spectacles on, and through these she peered at Rawlings. He looked slightly uneasy, but he hid it well, and only the attentive eyes of Clarisse could see the hints of it.

"Tell me about her, please," Rawlings said quietly. Clarisse sighed and took her spectacles off.

"She doesn't work for me," she said. Something similar to relief passed over Rawlings' face. She was smiling slightly, a knowing smile that revealed nothing. "Her name is Sophie Forestier. She lives in the next town over with her aunt and uncle. She comes to me every once in a while with fruits and vegetables that she sells to me when she's hard up for money."

"Why does she speak English so well?" he asked. Clarisse shrugged, beginning to get annoyed by his persistent questions. She wished he would just let her get back to her work.

"How should I know? I buy her vegetables, I don't socialize with her," Clarisse shot back.

Rawlings understood that the harshness in her voice was a command to leave, and so he respectfully bowed and left, closing the door quietly behind himself. Once he was gone Clarisse allowed herself to grin broadly for a few moments, savoring the thought of young romance, before she sobered up and got back to work, poring over huge ledgers filled with numbers, expenses and income.


	2. A Bad Excuse for Flirtation

Chapter Two

She leaned her bicycle against the wall of the building and took the vegetables out of the basket. It was sunny today, a perfectly cloudless sky, and she savored the warmth, a welcome change after a particularly dismal fortnight. She walked up to the door, much more confidently than she had in the past, and she opened it without knocking, just as she usually did.

Girls were running around laughing, obviously preparing themselves to go out for a walk. They smiled and said hello as they saw her, for everyone loved Sophie. She might not approve of their occupation, but she was at least civil to them, unlike many of the other women in the neighborhood.

"Clarisse is in her office," one of the girls said with a smile. "The gentleman you met the other day is in her office with her," she added with a wink. Sophie felt her stomach doing flip-flops, and she felt at once self-conscious, fearing that she might be a little obvious. But it was too late for that now.

Clarisse's door flew open just as she lifted her hand to knock on it. Clarisse was smiling sternly at her, the smile of a benevolent mother who wants nothing but the best for her child.

"Having some financial troubles?" she asked, opening the door a little wider so that she could enter the room. She thus revealed the form of Blaine Rawlings sitting on the sofa, a cup of tea in his hand. He started at once, quickly putting the cup of tea down with a clatter and standing up, rushing to smooth his uniform. Sophie held back a giggle with some difficulty.

"I'm sorry to come back so soon," she said quietly, tightly clutching her bundle of vegetables to her chest. "My uncle hasn't been doing so well- no one has much money to spend on furniture these days. I would appreciate it if you didn't mention to him that I was here. I don't want him to know that I'm worried about our financial situation. He fancies himself the head of the household and wants to support his family appropriately, and just doesn't understand that everyone needs a little help now and then."

Clarisse didn't seem very interested by her little story. Rawlings stared at them, appearing slightly confused though he was doing his best to follow the conversation. They were speaking in French, but only because Sophie had begun speaking in French, so that he wouldn't understand about her problems and her pathetic excuse for returning so soon.

"I don't have any extra money to pay you," Clarisse said in English, her voice thickly accented. "The best I can do is trade rations."

"That's fine," Sophie said, giving in and speaking in English.

"I'll see what we have," Clarisse said, leaving the room. Subtly, she closed the door behind herself, locking Rawlings and Sophie in together.

Sophie set her vegetables down on the table and shuffled her feet uncomfortably, staring at the floor.

"How is it that you speak English so well?" he asked suddenly. She jerked her head up suddenly, startled by the question. She frowned. "I mean, you haven't even got an accent. You speak English just like the rest of us in the Escadrille."

She smiled slightly, blushing a little. She lowered her gaze.

"My mother was American and my parents met in New York. I was born there, but we moved back here by the time my brother was born. I've lived in France ever since."

She spoke much more readily now, and she met his eyes as she spoke. He smiled at her, and she blushed and looked away.

"You know, you owe me an apology for letting me think that you worked here," he said, a small smile flashing across his face. She refused to meet his gaze, and stared obstinately at the floor. He walked over to her and put a hand under her chin and lifted her face so that she was looking at him. She started at his touch, but she didn't shy away.

"Would it have been so very bad if I did?" she asked quietly, her mouth firmly set and her eyes attempting to be cold but succeeding poorly.

"No, but if you did work here then you wouldn't have been able to get involved with anyone," he retorted quietly, his voice gentle. She almost laughed, but she smiled instead.

"Is there anyone in particular I should get involved with?" she asked, her bright blue eyes dancing. He smiled back, a conspiratorial and slightly embarrassed smile.

"If I answered you truthfully you would laugh," he said, his eyes dancing as well. She giggled.

"If you lie to me I would think you have no backbone, despite your service in the army," she teased.

He opened his mouth to speak, but just at that moment Clarisse came back in, her arms laden with bread, cheese, and some meat wrapped up in butcher's paper. She placed all of it on the table and put her hands on her hips, looking sternly at Sophie.

"I think I'm giving you a bit too much, but as you very well know, kindness is a large part of my nature," she said. "Now take your rations and get out of here."

Sophie smiled and thanked her, and quickly wrapped up the rations in the cloth she had used to contain her vegetables. She bid them both good-bye and hurried from the room, but not before allowing her gaze to linger on Rawlings for a minute, smiling at him.

"Where were you all day? I could have used your help around the house," her aunt chided as she stepped through the door. She had hidden the rations under a pillow in the parlor, a room which was never used except when guests came over, or on special occasions. She didn't want her aunt to find out that she had been trading their vegetables without asking her first, and she most certainly didn't want her aunt to find out that the rations they had gotten in return had come from Clarisse.

"I went out for a bike ride, I'm sorry," she said, putting an apron on and picking up a spoon. She stirred the stew which sat on the stove, attempting to find something to do so that her aunt wouldn't be able to criticize her any more. "I didn't realize you needed help today."

Her aunt sighed and continued cutting up the carrots. She could never stay angry at her niece for too long, for she was always such a good girl that her mistakes were few and far between, never serious in nature and never intended to hurt anyone.

"Have you gotten any letters from Charlie?" Sophie asked, forcing herself not to look up from what she was doing. She didn't want her aunt to see the sad desperation in her eyes as she thought of her brother.

"None," her aunt said, dumping the carrots into the stew. Sophie renewed her stirring with slightly more force, so that the carrots would get mixed in with the rest of the stew. "But not to worry, I'm sure the post is just slow. It's been that way since the beginning of the war, you know that."

Sophie nodded absently, but she was in no way comforted. She hadn't heard from her brother in weeks, and it worried her. But, as usual, she forced the thought from her mind and tried to think of something more cheerful.

"Your uncle said that the cobbler's shop down the street closed. I guess everyone has just decided to repair their shoes themselves, the way we have," her aunt remarked. Sophie said nothing but took the stew off the stove to cool. She stirred it one last time before putting the lid on it, to keep the heat in.

"We're far from being in trouble," Sophie remarked sadly. She knew, like everyone else did, that though they were suffering, they were far from going under. They at least had vegetables and a little bit of meat, some bread and cheese. And though her uncle's carpentry business was suffering, there were still English and American officers willing to buy French cabinets and trinkets for their wives back home. At least the war hadn't hurt them as badly as it had some of their neighbors- she was thankful for that, and she thanked God every day at least once for that blessing.

"Why don't you go fetch your uncle for supper?" her aunt suggested, her lips pressed tightly together, the way they got when she started thinking about something unpleasant. Sophie nodded, taking her apron off and hanging it up. At least her aunt's preoccupation with the war would keep her from inquiring about how her niece spent her day.


	3. Tea for Two

Chapter Three

She was working in the kitchen, making a pie. She had flour smudged across her face, and was covered in flour up to her elbows. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, the way it always was, but at this moment it was beginning to slip from its perfect hairstyle and fall about her face.

There was a knock at the door and she sighed, wishing the caller had chosen a different moment, for now she was far from being presentable. She wiped her hands clean on her apron, removing the better part of the flour, and went to answer the door.

It was Rawlings, looking extremely nervous and holding a neat package wrapped in butcher's paper. She gasped and her eyes grew wide as she considered slamming the door in his face and opening it again when she was clean and presentable. She could see the laughter in his eyes as he took in her appearance, and his mouth was curving upwards in a smile.

"Did I come at a bad time?" he asked, coughing and trying to compose himself once again. She bit her lip and shook her head. There was never any excuse for impoliteness, and turning him away would have been far from polite.

"Come on in," she said in a subdued voice, opening the door a little wider so that he could enter. He did so, his heavy army boots echoing throughout the house as he stepped on the neat wooden floors.

"Please, take a seat in the parlor," she offered, motioning with a large wave of her hand. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be back in a moment."

She hurried upstairs to her room, untying her apron as she climbed up the stairs, two by two. She pulled off her dress, a worn cotton print that she used only for work around the house, then pulled on her best dress, a sky blue silk with black lace. It was her most becoming dress, and she usually saved it for special occasions. She dipped her hands in the washbasin and cleaned her face, pulled her hair out of its chignon and then tying it up again in a more composed and less scruffy hairstyle. Pinching her cheeks to give them some color, she smiled at her reflection in the mirror, then went downstairs.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said as she returned to the parlor. "I wasn't expecting any visitors today."

He smiled kindly, and she knew that he understood. She allowed herself a brief moment to look at him, their eyes locked, for her to take in his easy smile and kind face. Then she brought herself back to earth.

"Are you hungry? Would you like some tea?" she asked, reminding herself of her duties as hostess. He nodded.

"Tea would be wonderful," he said with a smile. "We never get anything much nicer than army rations, so this would be a welcome change."

She smiled, trying to retain a small laugh, and went into the kitchen to make some tea. From the parlor he could hear the noises she made as she set the silver tea-tray, putting the teapot, the teacups, the sugar and the cream on it, putting the water on the stove to boil, and trying to scrape up some cookies, sandwiches, or something of the sort to munch on.

"I'm sorry to just drop in on you like this," he said, speaking rather loudly so that she could hear him from the kitchen. "I happened to be in town, and I'd heard that you lived here, so I thought that I might as well drop by."

She said nothing in response, focused on pouring the hot water into the teapot. She dropped some tea leaves in and put the lid on, picking up the tray and balancing it with practiced ease.

"Here, let me help you with that," he said, standing up as she entered the parlor again. He took the tray from her and gently put it down on the table, so gently that not a single cup could be heard rattling.

She smiled at him, touched by his polite kindness. She sat down in a large armchair and began pouring the tea, holding the teapot with an elegant hand position, long-practiced and perfected.

"Sugar or cream?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Black tea is fine, thank you," he said. She sighed inwardly- they had very little of both, and if he had taken any there would have been none left. She smiled and handed him his teacup, which he took, rattling the cup a bit. She bit her lip to keep from laughing, finding him absolutely adorable in his unsophisticated nature.

"Do you play?" he asked, indicating the piano that stood in the corner of the room, a book of sheet music open to a piece by Beethoven.

"A little, yes," she said. "My uncle is the true master, though. He's tried to teach me, but I'm afraid I'm completely hopeless."

He laughed and shook his head, negating her inability to play.

"I'm sure you're wonderful," he assured her, his eyes dancing. She blushed and looked down at her tea. "I can't play any instrument, I'm afraid. I have such a great admiration for those who can, though."

He sipped his tea slowly. She set down her teacup and helped herself to a small cookie, sprinkled with sugar. She nibbled on it, eating it slowly, trying to make it last. He watched her with fascination, all the while saddened by her curious ways, brought on by what he was sure was the war and the food shortage.

"Tell me more about yourself, Mr. Rawlings," she said quickly, putting her teacup down rather abruptly, rattling the china. Her piercing blue eyes seemed to bore into him. "For this is hardly the first time we've seen each other, and yet I know nothing about you."

"Well, for starters I'm from America. My family used to own a ranch in Texas, but the bank foreclosed once my parents died. I didn't have anything better to do with my life, so I signed up for the army. That's how I came to be here," he said quietly, his face expressionless. Sophie said nothing.

"Do you like the army?" she asked quietly, refusing to look at him, instead fingering the delicate handle of her teacup.

"It's alright, I suppose. We get fed every day, and we have a fine place to sleep. But every time I go up in the air I wonder why I'm doing it. Every time I go up there's a chance that I'll die in the most horrendous way possible, but I keep doing it. I suppose it's because I've got nothing to lose."

He sounded distant as he spoke, and he was no longer looking at her, but rather at something far away and very much untouchable. He sighed and looked back at her, violently brought back by the gentle rattling of her teacup.

"So you have no family at all?" she asked. She felt instantly sorry for him, wondering how anyone could live without knowing the wonderful love and affection that sprouted within a family. It was the same feeling that she felt whenever she contemplated a small orphan, that gentle tugging on her heart and the sinking feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach.

He shook his head in a negative response, then looked down at the cookies and tiny sandwiches on the tray.

"I have a brother in the army," she said quietly, lowering her own gaze as she spoke. "He's in the trenches, actually. He got promoted to Captain about two months ago. He seemed terribly proud of it in his letter. I haven't heard much from him since, but I suppose he's alright. He doesn't get much time to write, and every time he does he warns us not to worry if a long time passes before we get another one. I worry about him, about what might happen to him, but most of the time I try not to think about him at all. That helps, not thinking about it."

He longed to reach out and touch her hand, to squeeze it in a comforting gesture of reassurance. But he did no such thing. Instead he reached out and chose the smallest cookie on the tray, nibbling on it like a little bird.

"I don't get many visitors since the war started," she said suddenly. He stopped eating to look at her. "People keep moving progressively away. The economy in this little town is slowly dying alongside its sons off at war, and every time someone dies their family moves away. Their business has died, and the only thing that's tying them to this little plot of land is the hope that their sons will one day return to it. And when that hope is gone, they move away, hoping to find a more prosperous future elsewhere, a future not laden with painful memories."

Rawlings said nothing, but this time he did reach out and touch her hand. She started at his touch, but she didn't move away, but seemed comforted by the feel of another human's hand on hers.

"Do you come to town often?" she asked. He shrugged.

"Every time I have leave," he said. "It's not as though I have anywhere else to go- home is too far away, not that it's much of a home anymore."

"Have you seen much of the town?"

"Just the highlights," he admitted with a sheepish grin. She smiled, speaking matter-of-factly.

"I should give you a tour sometime," she announced. "It's quite a lively little town once you get to know it. Never a boring moment."

He smiled and squeezed her hand a little tighter. She returned the gesture, seeming to need to reassure herself of this physical bond. Their eyes met, and they held each other's gaze for what seemed like an eternity.

The old grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room rang three o'clock, and suddenly the connection was broken. She pulled away and roughly stood up, smoothing her skirts in a nervous movement, some random action that enabled her to do something.

"You should be going," she announced, forcing a small and slightly disconcerted smile. "It's a long way back to your quarters, I'm sure, and I wouldn't want to be responsible for you getting yourself into trouble."

"I can stay a little longer-"

She shook her head and began gathering up the tea things, putting them all on the silver platter and carrying it into the kitchen. After putting them down again she paused, taking several deep breaths to steady herself and calm her nerves. When she returned to the parlor, he was standing, terribly erect and military in stature, his cap already on his head and making him look ever so dashing.

"I'll be off, then," he said, sounding extremely disappointed and unwilling to leave. She could feel her stomach wriggling around uncomfortably as he began to walk towards the door, his heavy boots making loud noises the house was unaccustomed to hearing, but she refused to allow herself to succumb to such desires.

"I'm so glad you dropped by," she said quietly, once they had reached the hallway and stood just in front of the door, his hand on the doorknob. "I did enjoy our conversation."

He smiled slightly, one of those genuinely kind and happy smiles of his that made her go weak at the knees. She smiled back, and with that he opened the door and stepped out into the fading afternoon sun. The sound of children playing in the streets assaulted them at once, and she stood in the doorway watching him as he made his way down her front steps. She had one hand on the door, ready to close it, and he was on the bottommost step when she called out to him.

"I would like it if you came again," she called. He turned and grinned at her, touching his cap in a small salute.

"Count on it."

Laughing, she slowly closed the door again.


	4. A Masculine Interlude

Chapter Four

When he returned to his rooms, he was grinning broadly. Skinner didn't fail to notice Rawlings' happiness, and he eyed him with curiosity as Rawlings took his boots and coat off and threw himself onto his bed, ready to relax and read a book.

"What did you do today?" Skinner asked, frowning. Rawlings laughed.

"I just had a meeting with an angel," he said, sighing dramatically. Skinner almost laughed, but he restrained himself.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, a little annoyed that Rawlings wasn't explaining himself better. Skinner knew that he was no less intelligent than any of his white countrymen, and so he was always extremely annoyed when he didn't understand anything, because he always felt such a compulsion to understand everything they understood. "You sound like you're crazy. You'd better watch it, unless you want to go home."

Rawlings laughed and shook his head, dispelling Skinner's suspicions as to his mental stability.

"I met a girl," he said. Skinner almost laughed. It all made sense now. Instead he contented himself with a small smile. Rawlings sighed and put his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling and picturing Sophie's smiling face. "She's really great. She lives in town. She's sweet and smart, and really pretty. If I could I would go to see her every day."

"But you're in the army," Skinner reminded him. Rawlings found, abruptly brought back down to earth and away from his fantasy.

"Did you ever fall in love?" he asked. Skinner frowned. No one ever asked him about his personal life, and now he wasn't sure he felt like discussing it.

"A long time ago," Skinner said quietly, his gaze becoming distant. Rawlings watched him for a minute, fascinated by the odd look Skinner had on his face, a mix of both intense pleasure as well of incredibly painful remembrance.

"I'm going to go smoke," Rawlings said quietly, standing awkwardly. Skinner paid him no mind, and so Rawlings quietly walking into the common room, where a fire burned high in the fireplace. Beagle and a couple new guys, Thomas and Wheaton, were sitting in the overstuffed armchairs facing the fire. Beagle had his feet up on a table and was smoking in silence, admiring the way his hook caught the firelight and reflected it onto the wall.

Beagle turned as Rawlings entered the room, barefoot and coatless. Rawlings said nothing but sank into the last free armchair, grateful for its softness and welcoming embrace. As he sat down Beagle reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Rawlings, who gratefully accepted, pulling out his own packet of matches.

"What's eating you?" Beagle asked, instantly picking up on the slightly odd look on Rawlings' face. Rawlings shook his head, shaking away all thoughts about Skinner.

"Nothing, I just had a really good day, is all," he said, grinning as he thought about Sophie again. Beagle grinned and leaned in towards him, waiting for Rawlings to let him in on the secret. Rawlings gave a conspiratorial flash of his eyes.

"Come on, don't leave me hanging like that!" Beagle pleaded. Rawlings laughed.

"Her name is Sophie," he said. Beagle sighed, allowing his romantic side to take over as he pictured Rawlings and her together. "She lives in town."

"I wish I could meet a girl," he said sadly. "But most of them get scared off by my claw."

He and Rawlings exchanged grins. They both knew that Beagle was incredibly proud of his claw and of the fact that he could still fly a plan despite his lack of a second hand.

"Are we doing anything tomorrow?" Rawlings asked lazily, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. He watched as it caught the light and swirled around in patterns. Beagle shrugged.

"Nothing that I know of, but something might come up at the last minute," he said. That was what usually happened- they would hear about some of their own people getting attacked from enemy planes, and they would have to fly up and shoot down the enemy. Rawlings sighed. He wished the enemy would just tell them what their plans were so that he could organize his days and not have to guess at when he could or couldn't go into town.

"You know what, you should come into town with me next time I go in," Rawlings said suddenly, turning his head abruptly and looking at Beagle. His eyes were dancing, full of excitement, and his face full of that little boy charm. Beagle frowned, not sure what he meant. "I'm sure Sophie has some friends who are looking for a man in their lives. She says that she's lived in that town for a long time, she's bound to know someone."

Beagle smiled to himself at the idea. He leaned his head back in the chair and closed his eyes, picturing himself wrapped in a girl's arms. Of course he'd been with a girl since he'd lost his hand, but he hadn't been with a nice girl- they were too afraid of his claw. He longed to get involved with a girl, and not only on a physical level, but also on an intellectual one. Of course he was very grateful to Clarisse and her girls, for they had made him feel so much more comfortable with himself after it had happened, but they weren't exactly willing to get involved with him. And oh, how he longed for someone that he could spend hours talking to!

"I'm going to bed," Rawlings said, putting out his cigarette and stifling a yawn. He was sure that Skinner was in bed by now, and he wouldn't have to put up with his vacant stares and odd looks as he tried to remember stuff that had happened a long time ago.

"Well, good night then," Beagle said. "Try to get some sleep. I heard you tossing around last night as I was going to the bathroom."

Rawlings colored ever so slightly, and no one could even see it in the feeble light. But he quickly nodded to Beagle and the other two men and walked as fast as he could back into his own room. That is, as fast as he could without looking suspicious or out of character.


End file.
